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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29481660">oh the bitter thread of fate</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx'>OnyxSphinx</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ian/yassen coparenting au [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a somewhat hopeful ending, M/M, i swear this won't be the last fic in this series, like. no one DIES, well. by some metricts of "hopeful"</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:54:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,280</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29481660</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>SCORPIA never forgives, and SCORPIA never forgets, unfortunately for Ian, Yassen, and Alex.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tom Harris/Alex Rider, Yassen Gregorovich/Ian Rider</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ian/yassen coparenting au [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2110101</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>oh the bitter thread of fate</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>HUGE shoutout to the alex rider discord server for helping me plan this fic! you're all wonderful</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex yawns widely. It’s quarter to six in the morning, and though it’s summer, it’s still fairly cool, the cold air seeping in around the windows. He tugs the hood of his sweater over his head in an attempt to conserve warmth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are dragging your feet.” The observation comes from Yassen, who’s melted out of the shadows as if some sort of oversized cat. It’s something that Alex only now has begun to understand the reasoning for—his ability to quietly appear out of nowhere never really made sense when Alex thought he was a banker; but now, knowing he was a world class assassin, it fits into place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex grimaces. “I’m not,” he protests. A lie. Guiltily, he fills the pot full of water, as if somehow that’ll make up for the fact that he’s spent the last twenty minutes laying on the couch on his phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been a few months since they moved to Germany, and Alex’s picked up the language pretty fast, but he still finds himself somewhat ostracised at school—part of the reason he’s dawdling with breakfast, honestly, is because he dreads getting there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not that anyone’s been outright </span>
  <em>
    <span>unpleasant </span>
  </em>
  <span>towards him, but something about the way that their gazes are equally full of curiosity and cool distrust puts him on edge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs the bag of oatmeal out of the cupboard; pours it into the pot. “Do you want any?” he offers. Yassen shakes his head, and doesn’t say anything; just watches Alex like a hawk. “Okay,” Alex says, and tries to go about prepping breakfast without feeling horrifically exposed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's another thing—his trust in Yassen's been...not destroyed, exactly, but eroded to a degree. While he knows that Yassen isn't going to knife him or something, part of him still screams that he has to stay guarded around the man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Given that they live in the same house, it's a fucking balancing act to try and avoid being weird—and even then, Alex is pretty sure that at least Yassen, if not Ian as well, has noticed. Thankfully, neither of them have been saying anything, which Alex appreciates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The oatmeal begins to boil, and Alex gives it a stir. Watches the beige grain swirl around for a few moments.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen clears his throat. When Alex looks up at him, he looks...well, as expressionless as ever, honestly, but Alex thinks he catches a hint of—uncertainty, perhaps. "I was thinking," he begins, and then pauses, before continuing. "Perhaps we should...do something. Tonight. All of us," he clarifies. "As a..."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>As a what?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Alex wonders. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What do you even call our living situation?</span>
  </em>
  <span> They're not quite a family, but not quite </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> a family. It is, as he often tells Tom, </span>
  <em>
    <span>extremely fucking complicated.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen seems to think better than to try and find a word; instead, pushes on. "A film, perhaps?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex raises a brow. "What, like going to the theatre together?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other man nods. "Yes, exactly. But...I wanted to ask you first."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex blinks. "Why?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A slight frown tugs at the Yassen's lips. It's almost imperceptible, but Alex manages to catch it—mostly because, in comparison to how Yassen's face usually looks, it may as well be a screaming neon sign. "Your...approval," he says, as if choosing his words very carefully, "is important to me. I would not want to cause further tension."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex almost laughs. "Jesus fuck," he says. "Wow. Tom was right. You're really fucking weird."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen's expression shutters; and his posture stiffens. Realising his mistake, Alex backtracks. "I don't mean it in a bad way, just—I can't believe you're trying to get </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> approval. For a </span>
  <em>
    <span>film,</span>
  </em>
  <span> at that. Wait," he says, mind whirring, "are you trying to make Ian like you more?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a shadow of a grimace; and Alex sighs. "Yassen," he says, very patiently, "trust me—Ian already likes you plenty. You don't have to...prove to him that you're, I don't know, good at being </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Though," he adds, "I think a film is a great idea. Ian likes romantic comedies."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The pot is about to boil over," Yassen points out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Crap!" Alex grabs the handle, dragging it off the element. "Ugh. See, this is why I hate cooking," he complains. "The more I do it, the more I get why Jack constantly ordered takeout."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It is good to be self-sufficient," Yassen says; a faint hint of something that might be amusement in his voice. "You should eat quickly. The train will be here soon."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ugh,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Alex grumbles, again. "Fine. Pass me the molasses?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not until he's on the train, already halfway to school, that Alex realises Yassen never actually give a proper retort to Alex's point. "Fucking slippery bastard," he mutters to himself. "Can't believe I live with </span>
  <em>
    <span>two</span>
  </em>
  <span> emotionally avoidant adults now. What even happened to my </span>
  <em>
    <span>life?</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>His first three classes of the day pass without much fanfare; statistics is as soul-sucking as ever—Alex thinks that if he ever has to think about confidence intervals after he graduates he's going to throw himself out a window—but otherwise, he doesn't have much to complain about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pulling his backpack off his shoulders, he sits down at one of the more secluded tables by the edge of the green, nodding to a few of the other students who catch his eye. He recognises a few of them from various classes—Jonas, Hasan, and Sari—but he's not particularly close with any of them, and they're all more than happy to stay in their own groups.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls out his phone, checking his messages; grins when he sees a wall of text from Tom complaining about his audio-visual class. Apparently, the teacher's absolutely incompetent.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>that sucks,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Alex offers. </span>
  <em>
    <span>but hey, at least you only have a semester of it left</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>""""only""""</span>
  </em>
  <span> comes Tom's swift reply. </span>
  <em>
    <span>i swear if he tells us one more time how to turn our cameras on i''m going to kill someone.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex's lips quirk. </span>
  <em>
    <span>just don't get caught.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>haha</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The ellipses appear for a while, and Alex takes a few bites of his sandwich while he waits. It's not quite as good cold as it would be hot, but they don't have a microwave on campus that students can use, so it's a compromise he has to make. </span>
  <em>
    <span>how are things with ian and yassen?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He grimaces. Tom knows everything Alex knows, but still, there's things that are hard to explain. </span>
  <em>
    <span>weird,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he settles on, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yassen is trying to do some sort of ritual to prove himself to ian or something.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>like a mating dance?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>MATING DANCE???</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>yeah like when some birds fan out their feathers and do a dance to impress a potential mate</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>i know what a mating dance is you twat. it's just a weird way to describe what yassen's doing, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Alex shoots back. </span>
  <em>
    <span>he fucking asked me about my opinion on films to go see as like. a family or whatever. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The last bit makes him feel self-conscious and he shifts slightly in his seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, Tom doesn't comment on it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>fascinating,</span>
  </em>
  <span> is his only contribution. </span>
  <em>
    <span>what did you say?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>i told him ian likes romcoms, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Alex replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>really?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>he loves the things. he and jack used to marathon them on weekends. Why do you think i know what a hallmark film is?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>ok that's fair</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The ellipses pop up again, before disappearing and reappearing a few times. Finally, Tom's message comes through. </span>
  <em>
    <span>i'm free tonight, i was wondering if you wanted to call?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex grins. </span>
  <em>
    <span>absolutely,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he replies. </span>
  <em>
    <span>it's been ages since we had a call.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Well, a week, but who's counting.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>great! i'll look forward to seeing you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tom replies, then adds: </span>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;3.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Then: </span>
  <em>
    <span>got to go, sorry!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the day passes somewhat more easily; talking to Tom never fails to boost Alex's mood, even on days when he feels slightly unmoored. Even the worst classes pass somewhat more easily because of it.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>He's just left the school when he notices someone trailing him. At first, he chalks it up to paranoia, because things like this aren't supposed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>happen</span>
  </em>
  <span> anymore, they're supposed to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but after three blocks of the woman following him even though he opts for a more convoluted route, there's no other option.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grimaces. His best bet is to try and get to somewhere with lots of people and try and get lost in the crowd—easier said than done, since right now, he's on the unpopulated back streets. His skin is crawling, and his instincts are screaming at him to run, but he keeps his pace even, not giving any indication that he's noticed his tail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, he spots an out—an exit from the back streets onto a more crowded main street. There's only one problem—he has to go through an alley to get to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex swallows, and hopes really hard that the woman doesn't have any accomplices, and makes a dash for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's a scant few feet from the exit of the alley when something hits him over the head like a bat, leaving him seeing stars and knocking him to the ground. He stares at the sky for a few moments, winded, before someone pulls him to his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We've got him," says a male voice. "Bring the van around to the back of the alley."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck no,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Alex thinks. There's no way he's letting them get him to a second location. His hands may be behind his back, but the man has a restraining hand on his shoulder—a mistake, he learns, when Alex whips his head around to bite into it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man lets out a yell of pain. Blood fills Alex's mouth, coppery and cloying, and the man lets him go. Alex bolts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, in the rush of it all, he's forgotten about the second person—the woman trailing him. Diminutive in stature, Alex finds, she makes up for by being a ruthless weapon. Within seconds, he's on the ground again, head spinning, a boot on the side of his head, gravel digging into his cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something clicks—a gun, Alex realises, belatedly, as the cold gunmetal is pushed against the base of his head. "Up," the woman commands. "If you try and run again, we'll shoot." Alex does as told.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We can't kill him," the man protests, holding his hand close to his torso. It's red with blood, but not too much—Alex had thought he'd bitten a bit deeper, and finds himself feeling somewhat disappointed by the fact that he didn't. "Doctor Three will have our heads." There's a wariness to his tone—whoever this Doctor Three is, he's intimidating enough to scare the man—which is saying something, given he's at least six foot three, and built like a brick wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I said I'd shoot him, not kill him," the woman says, sharply; and shoves Alex with the gun. "Walk, Rider." The </span>
  <em>
    <span>or else</span>
  </em>
  <span> hangs heavy in the air. Alex, after a moment of hesitation, obeys; allowing the woman to herd him back down the alley and into the back of a van.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once he's in, the woman produces a pair of handcuffs from one of the boxes in the back of the van, and makes Alex turn around, cuffing his hands together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she slams the doors on him, leaving him alone in the car, save for the driver, who Alex can't see—at least, momentarily, because then they open the front doors to get in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You know, you're assholes!" Alex calls. "I was supposed to call my boyfriend—he'll realise I'm missing! And then my uncle will find you, and—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shut up," growls the man, spinning around to point a gun at him. "I don't care about your bullshit, kid. Shut up and stay shut up or I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>shoot you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't think your Doctor Three will like that," Alex says, defiantly, before he thinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man chuckles. "I think he'll understand the logic behind it," he says, darkly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shivers involuntarily. A part of him wants to keep mouthing off; but the other, larger part of him, realises the peril he's in, and knows better than to exacerbate it. So, despite wanting to yell at his kidnappers, he shuts his mouth; teeth clicking slightly with the force of it.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>The clock ticks past four o'clock, and still the door hasn't opened. Ian chews the inside of his cheek. Has the train been delayed? Alex would usually be home by now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A part of him—the paranoid part, that kept him alive as a spy—whispers that something is very, very wrong. He pushes it aside—surely, there's a normal explanation for Alex's lateness. He pulls up the website with the day's train schedules, eyes scanning the list. All of them are marked as functioning normally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls out his phone. Calls Alex. Ends the call when it goes directly to voicemail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's still one option, though not very likely—that Yassen picked Alex up and didn't tell Ian he was going to, and Alex switched off his phone. He opens up his messages. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Is Alex with you?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The reply comes almost immediately. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No. Is he not at home?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian's heart sinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No.</span>
  </em>
  <span> "Shit," he hisses, setting his phone down, hard, on the desk. Glances up at the monitor again. There's still about an hour's worth of work left for him to do, but there's no way he'll be able to focus on any of it right now, and he doesn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's only a few beats before Yassen's next message pops up on screen. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I will look into it. Make sure the house is secure.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Right. He can do that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A quick sweep of the room confirms there's no bugs; and he repeats the process in the other rooms, locking and bolting the front and back doors. He's suddenly glad that they invested in properly reinforced doorways—had thought that they were a bit of an overkill at the time, but now, with a possible threat, they seem much more sensible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After that, though, there's not much he can do besides wait for Yassen to get back. He goes through the motions of the day—begins prepping dinner, cleans the entire living room, but his mind is buzzing and his flight or fight instincts have been activated, and he wants nothing less than something </span>
  <em>
    <span>tangible </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do. It feels like he's drowning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At five-thirty on the dot, the front door creaks slightly as the key turns in the lock, the bolt pulling back a moment later. Yassen steps through the doorway, securing the door behind him. His expression is grim. "I talked to his teachers. The last time they saw him was around three, when he left for the train station."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Did you check his usual route?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen nods. "No sign of him. I have pulled some strings, so we will have access to the CCTV of the area, but that will not be for a few more hours yet."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian clenches his jaw; hands balling into fists. "Okay," he says, taking a deep breath; closes his eyes for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a hesitancy in Yassen's body language, and when he reaches out to place his hand on Ian's arm, it's awkward. "We will find him," he promises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian nods. "Okay. Yeah, okay."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There's something you're not saying," Yassen observes. "You should get it out."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian bites his tongue, before sitting down in the armchair. "It's just—we had, what, almost a year and a half? I thought—I don't know, I thought we were...</span>
  <em>
    <span>safe. </span>
  </em>
  <span>God." He laughs. "Can you believe that? I thought we were </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's only natural to let down your guard after that long," Yassen says, and then: "...even I had started to...</span>
  <em>
    <span>hope.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's as close to an admission as Ian'll ever get, and he appreciates it, but still—"Do you think we could have prevented it? If we had trained him more, if we had—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen cuts him off. "Ian. You wanted him to be able to be a </span>
  <em>
    <span>child. I </span>
  </em>
  <span>wanted him to be able to be a child. Do you really think that training him would have achieved that?" </span>
  <em>
    <span>Do you think that people wouldn't have noticed? </span>
  </em>
  <span>goes unsaid. Part of what allowed them to keep such a low profile is that Alex is fairly good at playing a normal teenager.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian grudgingly shakes hid head. "No," he says, letting out a harsh breath; presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he pulls them away, Yassen's knelt down on the floor in front of the armchair, and he takes Ian's hands in his own. "We </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> get him back," he says, and his voice is as close to </span>
  <em>
    <span>fierce</span>
  </em>
  <span> as Ian thinks it's possible for it to get.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods. "Alright."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, there's not much either of them can do at this point besides wait. Yassen helps Ian with dinner, and they eat in silence together at the table in the kitchen, the empty chair where Alex usually sits a painful reminder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're halfway through the meal when Yassen's phone buzzes. "My contact," he says, unlocking the phone. A moment later, he props the phone up on edge and presses the play button in the middle of the screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slightly grainy footage begins to play. A blonde figure appears on screen—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Alex</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Ian recognises, heart jumping into his throat. A second later, a second figure appears—a petit woman. It takes a few moments for him to realise she's following him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex obviously realises it as well; because a few seconds later, he ducks down an back street and out of view. Yassen swipes to the next video.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They watch up until the man hits Alex over the head with a bat—Ian draws in a sharp breath, and Yassen reaches out and pauses the video.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Definitely foul-play, then," Ian says, quietly. Up until this moment, he had still held out hope that maybe there was some other explanation—but now, having seen that, he can no longer deny it. He lets out a shuddering breath, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, hot and sharp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I will try and get an ID for the two attackers," Yassen says, softly. "We will find him, Ian."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's just about to put the phone away when it buzzes again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Unknown number,</span>
  </em>
  <span> the screen reads. There's a video attachment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian hears Yassen's breath hitch almost imperceptibly. He taps the notification.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On screen, a small, dark haired man stands beside a tray of various implements. He picks one up, looking it over. The camera pans to Alex, bruised and bound to a chair, before panning back to the man. "I wonder how long he'll survive," he muses, and then stares directly into the camera. "You have twenty-four hours, Cossack. Either you dispose of Ian Rider, or Alex here will become an educational piece for our students at Malagosto."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, the screen goes black, leaving Ian and Yassen alone in the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well," Ian says, after a long pause, "I guess we have our answer."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen's throat bobs as he swallows. "I thought I had covered our trail sufficiently," he half-whispers. "I thought—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"SCORPIA never forgives," Ian says, grimly, "and they never forget." He hesitates. "There's only one option."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen jerks his head sharply. "No. Absolutely not. I refuse."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yassen, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Be reasonable. It's the only way—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They're at Malagosto," Yassen says, cutting him off. "I can be there within a few hours. I can—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>, exactly?" Ian demands. "They're probably heavily fortified, and they would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>expecting</span>
  </em>
  <span> you. It's nothing short of suicidal. At least my plan—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Your plan is hardly any better!" Yassen exclaims, standing up suddenly, the chair skittering across the floor from the force of it. "You want me to—to—</span>
  <em>
    <span>kill you!</span>
  </em>
  <span> We have no guarantee that SCORPIA will honour their end of the deal! You forget that I used to work for them—even </span>
  <em>
    <span>if, if</span>
  </em>
  <span> they let Alex go, it will be will a dozen strings attached!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence settles between them; thick and heavy; suffocating. Ian slumps in his seat. "I can't lose him, Yassen," he says, "I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can't</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I already lost John and Helen."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen closes his eyes for a moment. "I know," he says. "I know."</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>"The clock is ticking," says the man who Alex has gathered is Doctor Three. He's short, with a wiry build, and greying hair, and looks like a kindly teacher, save for the sharp, dangerous look in his eyes, and the fact that he's spent the last few hours practically lavishing attention to what appears to be a tray of torture implements. "I do wonder what decision Cossack will come to."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You guys are creepy as </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Alex spits. "And his name isn't Cossack, it's Yassen."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doctor Three smiles thinly, his dark eyes gleaming with something that makes Alex shudder. "Do you know how many people he's killed?" he asks, conversationally. "Or the things he's done for his assignments? You wouldn't be so keen to call him </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yassen</span>
  </em>
  <span> if you knew, I think."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex swallows thickly. "I don't care," he says, stubbornly. "He's—he's..." </span>
  <em>
    <span>family</span>
  </em>
  <span> almost drops from his lips, and Alex finds himself reeling at that. "I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don't,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" he repeats, jutting his chin out defiantly. "I know he's killed people."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And tortured them," Doctor Three agrees. "Not the most eager student of Malagosto's practical torture lessons, perhaps, but one of the most proficient. But you must have known that, too," he adds, innocently. "I'm sure Yassen's told you everything."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's trying to undermine Alex's trust—he knows that. Doctor Three's hardly trying to hide it, though Alex is sure that, if he wanted to, he could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tests the restraints again, vaguely disappointed when they turn out to be just as binding as they were the first time he tried them when they dragged him in to the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doctor Three clicks his tongue. "I wouldn't try and escape, if I were you," he says, softly. "I would hate to have to reprimand you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex freezes. Something deep within him tells him that not heeding Doctor Three's words would be inadvisable. Doctor Three smiles again; as thin as ever. "Good," he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opens, revealing the man who kidnapped Alex—tall, and with a scar running across his nose. Alex has mentally dubbed him Scar, mostly because he feels somewhat petty. "Doctor Three," he says, "Cossack's on the phone."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doctor Three raises a brow. "He's disposed of Rider?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scar shakes his head. "He wants to negotiate," he says. "He says you might want to hear him out. Not as an ex-operative, but as SCORPIA's top earner for a decade."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doctor Three pauses, setting down the scalpel he's been creepily running his hands over; expression contemplative. "What could he possibly have to offer?" he muses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scar shrugs. "No idea, sir, but he's still on the line. Er," he adds, "the landline, that is."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Only Cossack would call our landline," Doctor Three sighs, seeming to be almost exasperated. Alex wonders if this has happened before. Honestly, Yassen's weird enough that it might have. "Alright. Well, Alex, I'm afraid I must go for the moment."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thank fuck,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Alex bites back. Instead, he just nods.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>They shift from the landline to the laptop after a few moments of tense back and forth. "Doctor Three," Yassen greets. "I would say it's a pleasure to see you again, but I'm afraid that that would not be true." By his side, Ian shifts slightly in his chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doctor Three raises a brow. "Your companion is still alive, I see," he says. "What exactly do you have to offer SCORPIA that could possibly outweigh your betrayal?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"To be fair," Ian points out, "you told him to deal with me, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>kill</span>
  </em>
  <span> me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doctor Three's expression hardens. "Cossack," he says, sharply, "your offer?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My unconditional services," Yassen says. "No contract. And I will train Alex Rider as my protegé. And Ian..." he pauses. "Ian will remain your hostage," he concludes. "As leverage for Alex and I."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're sacrificing quite a lot," Doctor Three observes. "What exactly do you expect to gain out of this situation?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Quite bluntly," Yassen says, "I am not particularly concerned with what else I can gain from this deal, so long as my family remains alive." Beneath the table they're sitting at, Ian reaches out to take his hand, squeezing it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doctor Three's smile is thin and sharp as a shark's. "Family. How touching."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen bites back a scathing retort. All that matters now is getting Doctor Three to agree. "Your thoughts?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doctor Three purses his lips; the expression breaking the kindly old teacher façade for a moment. Then he says, "While I cannot speak for the rest of my colleagues, I find that to be an acceptable solution."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen lets out a soft, controlled exhale. "Good," he says. "We'll arrive in Malagosto tomorrow, then."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doctor Three nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The instant the call ends, Yassen slumps in his seat; swallowing thickly. "I don't like this," he murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's what we have to do," Ian says, firmly. "For Alex."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"For Alex," Yassen echoes; and then, on impulse, turns and pulls Ian into an embrace, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he pulls back, Ian raises a brow. "I do not know when I might be able to do that again," Yassen explains, feeling somewhat self-conscious. "I do not...want to lose you without showing you that I care."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yassen..." Ian murmurs, and pulls him back in. "I know," he murmurs, and kisses Yassen again, slightly desperate.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>you can find me at <a href="https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/">autisticharrow</a> on tumblr</p></blockquote></div></div>
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